A Week
by Vana E
Summary: When all is lost and one does not know how much time they have left…what happens then? Warning, MM slash JackWill and lots of angst. Possible character death, happy ending debatable.


**Title:** A Week

**Author: **Vana E

**Disclaimer:** Do not own them, so why bother trying?

**Warnings: **Angst, adult themes, violence, sex, MM-slash, pain…you want more?

**Summery:** When all is lost and one does not know how much time they have left…what happens then?

**Authors Note:** You want my opinion? I should be shot for this. Stupid plot bunny bit me after I found out some very interesting true facts about Port Royal…believe it or not all the dates in here are accurate, just shows what a little bit of research can do for you. But to be serious, I should be shot for this. I need to finish my other fics first…I really should be shot. I also work a lot…oh damn where is my gun?? Ok…no gun…but at least somebody give me a knife that's sharp!! Oh, by the way…this is my first ever PotC fiction but I used to roleplay Jack for a long time…yes, I roleplay men, do you have a problem with that? Then go read Het, I'm a sadistic slasher. But really, I do know quite a bit about what I write, am not new to fanfiction.

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Prologue 

In all rights and reasons, and by all supreme logic, and by all the known laws of the sea and land and his own non-existent conscience…he wasn't supposed to be here. But of course, that didn't stop him now did it.

He was pirate, what else could he say? 'I am a man,' he could remember saying once 'a man of good reasons, foundations and a good stomach for the good stuff.' He remembered the loud cheer of approval from the other patrons of the Grog house as they downed the drinks the house was named for and he continued. 'Being a man of morals…as long as they benefit me in any way possible,' he added and gained chuckles of approval and hearty slaps on the back, 'I deem that being a man is a fine thing, a wonderful thing. Being a man…is almost as good as being a woman, except we get to choose the time, the place and most importantly…the process.' Raucous laughter for that, he never disappointed his public. A show, he would say, a show for me and me fellas and we'll never sleep. He remembered standing on the table when he delivered that manly line, he remembered laughing and swishing the mug around, drops flying in graceful arcs and landing on others.

He remembered the laughter, and he remembered the silence.

He couldn't remember the time between the laughter and silence, for him that was a blank. But he remembered the story that others had written for him, that he may read it and let the nightmare take its firm hold upon his soul.

A gun, he read, an enemy simple and plain casting his revenge upon a competition. Another pirate that was drunker than himself…and a gun.

If he tried hard enough, he thought he could remember the blast and the shocked face of one particular wench he had hoisted up next to him on the makeshift stage. But he would never be sure; he hadn't gone back after the incident and he didn't plan to anyway in the near future…he knew his future was going to be short anyway. Why make it any worse than it was?

And that lead him back to this point in time…there was no reason in the world why he should be here, nearly three years after leaving in an almost suicidal move. He had escaped their scrutiny for two, wonderfully beautiful years filled with the glorious sounds of the sea, the wind in his hair, the completeness of being one with his love once more…his Pearl. Why come back? Well, what else did he have to lose?

The Port was as he remembered it, the same Dock master, the same grimy sea merchants unloading their loads and trading and some just acting busy for the sake of appearances. It had the same sea wall on the far side…where he remembered that fateful plunge that lead to his freedom and Love. The Fort was still there…why wouldn't it be?

He always had the impression that at the rate the Commodore was making enemies, Port Royal would soon be naught but rubble and burnt wood. But he was sort of glad it wasn't, that would mean that the only person he had finally come to realise as his last resort would be most likely dead, and that would mess up his plans quite thoroughly.

Unlike his last entrance, he had decided stealth would be necessary for this procedure. He had a slight problem with the law here, plus his own personal problem and he didn't want his chances toyed with. So instead of entering on a dingy with pride, dignity and sailor's decorum…he stowed away in a merchant ship amongst the sacks of grains from local ports that would be traded here for the liquor and cocoa needed for those other ports that still hosted the slime of the English colony. There was rot in some sacks, he got sick from the dust and he soon developed a terrible rash all over his body that no scratching would alleviate. At one point of a terribly chilly night that was very unusual for summer, he was forced to use empty burlap bags for blankets and soon got nits. He would never eat anything with grain again if this is what all produce came in like…not even the favourite brew would he touch…he almost felt like he allergic to that too now.

But he got in, he managed to sneak into the port in the dark hours of midnight and was now standing here, in front of a certain smithy, not having a clue what to do.

The sign was still the same…Brown, which was slightly odd as he would have thought the lad to have taken over by now. He was old enough…right? Brown was too drunk to carry on, to far gone. Why would his name be up there still?

This inane question running around in his head kept his mind off something he hated, the knowledge that when he would finally reach up and knock on the door, being the 'polite' person he knew he was somewhere inside, his nightmare would come into true manifestation. Maybe he would skip the knocking and just break a window. But that would be even worse, he figured.

So he reached up, hand shaking slightly with intense self-control as it moved back, into position, and rapped smartly on the wood in a strong way that he knew no one would not be able to hear it.

With this knock, he closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe again. He hated his nightmare with all his heart, the scar that was the bane of his existence almost seemed to throb in time with his heartbeat.

He remembered the laughter, then he remembered no more.

Suddenly his eyes snapped open and an involuntary gasp escaped his lips with the touch upon his shoulder. For a moment he was slightly bewildered, wondering where his thoughts were and who was actually standing before him with the craziest grin he had ever seen on the lad's face.

Will…damn that boy could give an old man a heart attack if he truly desired.

The boy was yabbering faster than Ana when she was angry with him. He was speaking almost in another language it seemed for the speed he was using to get out as much news as possible that had occurred in Jack's absence. He was almost pulling the older man inside and the pirate went reluctantly, still trying to catch the words spilling from Will's mouth and he caught '…eth married…Comme…England…' but the rest was lost to him.

About the same time they reached the kitchen in the back of the shop and he had found a wall to lean against, Will noticed something wasn't quite right and questioned him on it. Nice and slow, now he could grasp it.

"I'm not well, lad." Were his simple words, but if he said them loudly, softly, showing his anxiety or keeping calm, he would never know. This was his nightmare, and he knew it would hit the boy hard.

"Jack…what is going on?" His bottom lip was trembling slightly with nerves, his eyes looked very worried and he leaned closer to him, peering into his own eyes and studying them. "Jack?"

Face it, old man; you can't hear a word the kid is saying.

"I'm deaf, Will. I can't hear a thing…I'm deafer than a snake in India and more helpless than a deaf bat. Ye can thank the lovely invention called the gun for that one, it left me this." He knew his words were slurred, more than usual he could feel it through his lips. He also knew he sounded bitter as he whipped off his hat and pulled off the scarf, turning his head and revealing a two inch scar under his left ear before turning it again and showing the smaller, yet still horrific scar behind his right. "When ye get shot like this, it's either a miracle or a curse ye survive." He said, placing all effects back in their place. "Mine was a curse…I come to ye a pauper, an exile and without me Love…they took me Pearl and cast me out. Killed most of me crew and the rest disappeared on me…lost her all over again and this time there's no getting it back. I stopped being a pirate the day that drunk shot me and I was under for three weeks. I stopped being a man, I stopped hearing the sea." His voice was pained he knew and his throat sore.

Will had simply gone white and said nothing as of yet. They both just stood there in the doorway of the kitchen, silence lingering eternally over them and both men's thought's racing with visions and questions and the everlasting confusion over how one small thing could ruin something so perfect.

The day was Monday June 1st, the year was 1692. A new day was dawning and two men were about to have their lives irrevocably changed even more so than had already happened.

The date was significant, it was day one of something big and new and a new type of perfect…but would it last through day number seven?

Tbc…

AN: I still think I should be shot…maybe a review might cure that and you will be able to see what happens over the next 7 days...in the story of course. Me update this whole thing in 7 days? Be lucky to get a chapter a week.


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